


"sorry i'm late."

by clickingkeyboards



Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [13]
Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Anxiety, Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, Developing Relationship, First Dates, First Kiss, Fitzbillies, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, coffee dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 21:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21434830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: It's not unusual for Harold to be late. He seems to always have somewhere to be that he forgets about, or a book he simply has to finish, or a fountain pen in a shop window that just called to him. Bertie assumed that Harold would have a little more consideration once the spot Bertie took up in his day was labelled 'date' rather than 'studying' but apparently some habits never change.That does not stop him from worrying.Canon EraWritten for the thirteenth prompt in the '100 ways to say "I love you"' prompt list by p0ck3tf0x on Tumblr.
Relationships: Harold Mukherjee/Bertie Wells
Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533164
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	"sorry i'm late."

“Are you doing to order, sir?”

“No, sorry.” I wave away the timid waitress who bats her eyelashes at me in a flirtatious manner. “I’ll order soon. I’m waiting on a friend.”

You see, I’ve got a date. At the beginning of this year, I met another boy on my history course who reacted to my surname. Not in the way people usually do, however.

* * *

Lectures are dreadfully dull. It has been just over an hour and I raise my hand to offer an answer to a question the lecturer is posing.

“Wells!” he barks as he calls on me.

Several pairs of eyes turn to stare and I _ despise _ the pitiful looks. Instead of my name being synonymous with the perfect grandeur of Fallingford and an absolutely English family that is the epitome of perfect in every way, people see what remains now the illusion has shattered, my sister and I standing in the rubble and clutching at each other. They see a fractured family and an affair out of hand, a schoolboy ruined by his best friend’s actions, and a schoolgirl caught up in the throes of an Orinetal leading her down a dark path.

Our family has shrunk and shrunk again. These days it is just my dear little sister and I, the two of us against the entire world. Us and the three people we allow ourselves to care about: our Uncle Felix who checks in on me whenever his Business brings him up to Cambridge; our Aunt E who is a Don at St. Lucy’s College and likes to force feed me sweet buns whenever I see her; and Daisy’s best friend in the entire world, who is called Hazel Wong and is the sweetest and most intelligent girl second to only my sister (her and Daisy fit so perfectly together, twined in a promise of linked fifth fingers, that I am jealous. My sister has found her Person that will be by her side for the rest of her life and she is only fourteen. How am I to compete with that?).

After the lecture, somebody catches me by the elbow and I turn to face this person with an irritated snap prepared to lash out.

My words die in my throat when I meet somebody quite unlike the typical Cambridge student: he is tall and thin with a narrow nose and a wide brow, brown skin and thatches of black hair. The thing that catches me and stops my insult before it can make it out of my lips is his wide brown eyes, sparkling and twinkling in a curious and mischievous way that I have never seen a colour so dull do. 

Instead of patting my shoulder and offering condolences for the fact that my best friend from school — Stephen Bampton — turned into a murderer and poisoned my mother’s antiques collector, he seizes my arm and says, “Why, I think I know you in rather an odd way!”

After some bumbling about introductions — his name is Harold Mukherjee, his father is Sir Mangaldas Mukherjee, a London doctor whom it is apparently incredibly astonishing I have never heard of — we turn to the reason that he seized my arm in the first place.

By this point, we are outside of the lecture hall and in the surprising downpour that has swept through the midday streets of Cambridge in early September.

“Crikey,” I mutter, drawing my blazer closer around me and stepping back under the outcrop. “This is quite the chill.”

“_ Isn’t _ it?” he agrees, clearly suffering in the surprisingly unpleasant cold as much as I am. “Here, not to be forward, but my rooms are only at St. John’s. I have a spare umbrella that you could certainly borrow.”

I find myself agreeing to this strange Indian young man with the clipped scholarly accent of a schoolboy that carries a London drawl behind each word, despite the fact that I have sworn to myself to not trust a soul in Cambridge. “That would be spiffing.”

* * *

We make a break for it down the paths of Cambridge, past men on bikes even more careless than normal as they try to steer with one hand and shield their books and hold umbrellas with the other, and past young woman astonished at the state of us, two scholars cackling with laughter and yelling directions at each other.

The porter for St. Johns lets us in without a word, as it seems as though an entire ocean has been emptied upon Cambridge, and we come to a stop in the porter's lodge, both breathless with laughter.

“Now for the quad!” cries Harold, and we peer out through the door in the puddle-ridden quad, where he points across to the staircase opposite us. “I’m in staircase five if you still want to—”

“Of course,” I reply, breathless. “As long as you have a fire.”

With that, we bolt across the quad and through the archway of staircase five, where we come to a rest to catch our breaths.

“Good lord!” I cry, leaning against the bannister and shaking my head to dislodge some water from my sodden hair. “I decree that as the most fun I have had in quite a while!”

“Goodness, what ever shall your don say?” he says in a dry tone, scuffing his muddy shoes on the mat. “Butler, is it not? He shall surely have something to say about a dear and proper Wells being corrupted by the resident ruffian.”

“Ruffian?” I ask automatically. “Why ever would he say you’re a—” My question dies when I take in his appearance once more.

He laughs at me, though not unkindly. “Indeed, Albert. Let’s not pretend we don’t know what people think of those like me.”

“One moment,” I say, catching his elbow as he starts up the stairs beside me. “Do call me Bertie. Everybody does. You sound like every court official I have ever met when you call me Albert.”

“I will do so, Bertie,” he says, and nods his head up the stairs. “I say, you _are_ sopping, let’s get you in front of the fire.”

* * *

After stoking the fire up with a generous amount of coal, we sit back in the seats in front of the fire, having shed our jackets and neckerchieves, which were quite heavy with water.

“Anyhow,” I say, running a hand through my drenched hair once again, “How do you say that you know me?”

He chuckles, and gives me my first insight of many into his character: how he blushes. While I can’t see his blushes because of his dark skin, he certainly shows when he is embarrassed: he scratches the back of his neck and smiles in a way that tugs up one end of his lips, and this is usually accompanied by a snort or chuckle.

“It’s quite embarrassing, really,” he says with a sigh. “My younger brother, George, is at Weston boarding school and best friend is a rather sweet American chap called Alexander Arcady. My brother, with no little excitement, informed me towards the end of our Easter break that Alexander went on a holiday on the Orient Express with his grandmother and solved a murder that took place on it. He and my brother want to start a detective agency when they’re older, you see. They’re at it already: it’s called the Junior Pinkertons and they’ve been rather successful, which of course makes me dreadfully worried for my dear brother and his safety. Anyhow, George also informs me that Alexander didn’t solve it himself: rather, he helped another teenage detective agency solve it. This rival detective agency apparently has a grand total of two members: Hazel Wong and Daisy Wells.”

“No way!” I cry, sitting up and staring with wide eyes. “What an odd coincidence! I was in London that Easter and needless to say, I heard an awful lot about it through letters after the fact. I wasn’t shocked: since the Deepdean murder, they’ve become normal with that sort of thing. Trouble chases my sister and her Hazel to a ridiculous degree.”

“Goodness, they sound like my brother and his Alex. Your sister sounds like a card,” he says, eyes focused on the fire. “Also, another murder? Goodness, you weren’t joking when you said it follows your sister.”

“Oh, she’s awful.” I grin at him before turning my gaze to the flames too. “I know, isn’t it ridiculous? There’s been a murder at her school, one on the train, and the third...” I pause and sigh, realising what I am addressing. The memory of Fallingford bites cold into my heart, scratching open the box of memories in my mind with sharp claws.

“I’ve heard,” Harold says softly, and I feel his eyes on me. “My condolences.”

I swallow thickly. “It’s alright,” I say, refusing to accept the condolences offered. “My sister is the only family I need. Our family has shrunk and shrunk again and I’ve found that she is the only one I can trust.”

“Once again,” he says, “My condolences.”

He sounds sincere. Not the empty prayers offered by so many. “Thank you,” I say.

He smiles.

* * *

After that one interaction, I find myself at St. John’s college almost every day. Harold and I walk to and from lectures together, study in the library beside each other, and go between shops in the town after lectures.

I find myself completely wrapped up in Harold Mukherjee. There is something about him that makes him sparkle to me in a way I can’t quite understand.

Until suddenly I do. 

One afternoon, we sit opposite each other in Fitzbillies, picking at each other’s cakes and comparing letters from our siblings. George laments on how dull Weston is while Daisy talks of crimes and secrets and  _ murder _ .

“I am dreadfully worried for her,” I tell him, worrying my nail along the cuff of my shirt. “You should worry too, Harold. Your brother is wrapped up in things like this.”

“I may invite him and his Alex here for Christmas to keep my brother out of trouble.” Harold leans back in his chair, eyes sparkling in the low glow of the Fitzbillies lighting as he realises that we have this new and potentially exciting thing in common.

“I was thinking of doing the same with my sister and her Hazel, but I think that your brother’s best friend might get slaughtered by my sister,” I say, recalling my sister’s furious letters about Alexander Arcady. “My sister  _ does not _ like him.”

“Do tell, why is that?” Harold asks, leaning over to look at me with interest that makes his eyes enormous and curious. “Alexander is charming young man, if a little loud and American.”

With a rueful smile, I say, “He corresponded with my sister’s best friend over a murder that happened at my sister’s school. Daisy is simply furious that she told someone about it.”

He snorts. “Her and Hazel are thick as thieves, my dear friend. They will never let this break them in two.”

All at once, realisation crawls at my skin. Only a little at first but then the reality of my situation bites into me just as the cold has and I feel as though I am in freefall.

_ My dear friend. _

In my mind, images race. I think of Harold’s dark eyes, enormous as he leans up close to me to whisper under his breath while we talk in somebody else’s rooms during a party. I think of his fond remarks of Weston boarding school, of the types of people there. I think of the disappointment that flashes in my gut for unknown reasons when he calls me his ‘dear friend’.

I do not want to be his ‘dear friend’.

I want to be  _ more _ .

That, to me, is utterly terrifying.

“I have to go,” I say, standing up and throwing a handful of coins on the table. “I’ll see you in tomorrow’s lecture. Goodbye.”

“Bertie, wait!” he cries, but I am already out the door. 

* * *

“Let me in, you prick.”

I start at the sound of a voice. For the past hour, I’ve been sat with my back against the door to my rooms while I bury my face in my knees. It’s been so hard to make sense of everything. I’ve tried so hard to block out these… these  _ urges _ . I had almost forgotten that I could feel them, associate them with something other then shame and a copy of the Bible to the back of my head.

“Bertie, I am not above kicking this door down.”

Ah, right. Harold.

I stumble to my feet and open the door, ready with a thousand excuses only to be instantly smothered by a completely sodden-from-rain Harold Mukherjee. “Idiot,” he says into my hair, where his head is bowed. “Don’t run off on me like that.”

“I—” I hiccup and sob. “I’m so sorry, you must think me an awful fool. It’s all a  _ bit much _ .”

With one foot, he pushes the door closed and it shuts with a soft snap. “Of course I do not. Westerners are so close-minded. You are allowed emotions, you fool. That is the only thing that makes you a fool.”

“Harold, you don’t understand.”

“I understand.”

“Harold, you do—”

He fixes me with a firm glare. “ _ I understand _ .”

I almost interject again but Harold mutters something about ‘stereotypical English dancing around the problem’ and says, “May I?”

Although I don’t know what he’s asking permission to do, I nod frantically. Whatever it is, it is all right.

“Breathe,” he says as he lifts a hand to my face and leans in.

Our lips touch and it’s surprisingly tender. “All right?” he murmurs against my lips.

I don’t reply; I don’t need to. Instead, I try to kiss him harder.

A hand on my chest, he pushes me away. “We are doing this? We are putting ourselves through unimaginable danger and a lifetime of hiding? You are willing to do that, Bertie?”

I take a moment to think about this and I realise with a jolt that I  _ am _ . I would go to the ends of the earth for Harold Mukherjee and that does not terrify me at all. “Yes,” I reply with a certainty that shocks me.

He sighs. “I might have died if you said no,” he breathes, and he yanks me in by my shirt for a hot and messy kiss. There is warmth and tongue and a strange heat that unravels in my chest and warms he from head to toe. His hands fall here, there, everywhere, in my hair, on my shoulder, on my neck, back, chest.

“Good lord,” I whisper when we break apart, panting for air. “We are really doing this.”

“We are,” he agrees, and dives back in again.

* * *

For the sake of my idiotic Squashy, who likes to steal my journals and read them for her own personal satisfaction, I will not detail the event that proceeds what I describe here.

Harold is asleep. I think he is, at least. I don’t think I’m able to sleep. Instead, I lay awake with my eyes fixed on the ceiling, trying not to acknowledge Harold laying against my side in my bed made only for one person.

I don’t think I could ever trust someone else to do with me what Harold just did. Since Fallingford, I have carried a certain vulnerability on my shoulders. The knowledge that I brought a murderer into the same house as my dear Daisy sighs heavy on my conscience in a way that aches and sometimes stings. I put my sister in harm’s way and I shall never forgive myself. However, Harold somehow managed to tear down that wall of hatred and anger and bitterness to the world that I built up.

With him, I can laugh and dance and love and kiss and whisper and work and talk and share secrets and… and do  _ that  _ with.

Beyond all of that, I can  _ be _ with him. I am not expected to perform around him, to be The Honourable Albert Wells. Even those who claim to be my friends are really only friends with the good parts that don’t curse out the world and my family, and cry late into the night. Instead, with Harold, I’m Bertie. I’m the idiot who falls down the stairs and can’t tie a Windsor knot and forgets history notes and is rather terrible at initiating kisses.

“I think I love you,” I say aloud, instantly horrified at my own admission, even though nobody heard it but me.

Being so vulnerable is a weakness.

“I  _ know  _ I love you,” Harold replies, his voice thick with tiredness. He leans up from where his head rests on my bare chest and kisses my jaw.

I think I should die.

* * *

The waitress walks past again. “Sir, you really ought to order now.”

My heart clenches as I look at the clock. We were supposed to meet thirty-seven minutes ago. I’ve been stood up on our first official date. “I’ll go, it’s quite all right.”

The waitress gives me a look of pity as I stand and go to leave.

I get two steps from the table when the door to Fitzbillies swings open. Harold spots me and darts over. “Bertie!” he exclaims. “ **Sorry I’m late.** ”

There is a pause in which I glare at him, and he repeats himself. “I am genuinely so sorry, I know my tardiness is an awful pain. I do have things to make up for it, though.”

It’s then that I notice what he’s cradling in his arms: a bouquet of roses.

The waitress smiles a little when she sees that I haven’t been abandoned by the friend I’m meeting with. “Roses?” she remarks with a chuckle as she takes our orders. “Quite the gift for a friendly catch-up.”

“Oh, no, they’re for his aunt,” Harold lies, nodding towards me. “We’re going to see her after this and he is consistently forgetful when it comes to getting her gifts that I thought I ought to save him the trouble.”

She laughs. “You sound an amicable friend, sir. Your tea shall be right over.”

“Thank you.” When she has left, he leans over and says, “How do you like them? I saw them and thought that I simply had to buy them for you. The wait was ridiculous. I’ve also got you this.”

He sets a leather-bound volume on the table. “ _ The Picture of Dorian Gray _ ,” he says with a smile. “I thought you would like it.  _ And  _ I have this!”

He takes a letter out of the brown paper bag and sets it atop the book. “I’ve written something to you.”

I reach for it and he swats at my hand. “Oi! I say, Bertie, don’t read it now.”

“ _ Right,  _ any reason why?” I tease, rolling my eyes at my ridiculous… boyfriend, I suppose.

Leaning over again, he says, “Because it’s disgustingly romantic and I don’t wish to witness your reaction.”

My reply is a chuckle. “I do adore you, Harold. I hope you know that.”

“And I, you, you ridiculous man.”


End file.
